The manor felt unusually quiet the next morning. Not peaceful—just eerily still, like the calm before a storm that everyone knew was coming. Amara had barely slept. She'd spent the night poring over the contents of her mother's box. Every photo, every scribbled note, every timestamp was another shard of truth stabbing into the illusion of safety she'd tried to build with Eli.
Her mother hadn't run away. She hadn't disappeared. She had been hunted.
And worse—betrayed by people she trusted.
As Amara dressed for the day, her thoughts were pulled to the letter her mother had left. "My darling daughter, if you're reading this, then I've failed to protect you the way I always hoped I could. But now you must protect the truth…" The words rang in her head like a bell tolling the beginning of war.
She tucked the letter in her coat pocket and made her way downstairs, only to find Madam Ijeoma standing stiffly in the foyer.
"You need to come to the study," the woman said. "Now."
Amara followed in silence.
Inside, Eli stood at the window, his back to her. A lawyer—stern-faced, glasses perched low on his nose—sat beside the fireplace with a briefcase open and documents neatly arranged on the coffee table.
Amara's eyes darted to Eli, who still hadn't turned around.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Madam Ijeoma closed the door behind them. "Mr. Hart Senior's will is being read."
The words struck like ice. Cornelius Hart—Eli's estranged father, the man her mother had feared—was dead?
"I thought—" Amara began.
"He died two nights ago," Eli said, finally turning. His voice was flat, his expression unreadable. "Heart failure. Quiet and convenient."
Amara flinched at the bitterness in his tone.
The lawyer cleared his throat. "Per Mr. Cornelius Hart's final wishes, the will is to be read in the presence of Mr. Elijah Hart and..." He glanced at Amara. "...a Miss Amara Okafor."
Her heart skipped. "What? Why me?"
"I don't know," Eli muttered, rubbing his temples. "I only found out this morning."
The lawyer gestured for them to sit. "I'll begin."
The will was cold. Mechanical. Cornelius had left instructions for the division of his properties, trusts, shares, and off-the-book assets. The majority, to Eli. A few philanthropic gestures to organizations that didn't even exist anymore.
But then the lawyer paused.
"There is... an additional clause."
He pulled a sealed envelope from his case, broken at the top. "This letter was written in Cornelius Hart's own handwriting, two months before his death. It reads:"
He began to recite:
To Eli and the girl who carries her mother's face—
You've found each other by now. Good. That was always the plan.
There's more to this inheritance than land and title. You've inherited blood. Secrets. Choices made long before you were born.
Elijah, your mother's death was not what you think. And neither was Adaora's.
I've left the final piece in the Thornridge vault. You'll need both keys to open it—yours, and hers. Together, or not at all.
I did terrible things. But not everything was a lie.
Go to the garden. Under the white rose. You'll find what I hid there.
The lawyer folded the letter and handed it to Eli, who didn't take it.
Amara sat frozen. The room spun slightly.
Together. Or not at all.
Another secret. Another mystery buried in this cursed manor.
"This can't be real," she whispered.
"Oh, it's real," Eli said, his voice like smoke. "And it means the past isn't done with us yet."
He stood abruptly. "Meet me in the garden. Midnight."
And then he was gone.
Madam Ijeoma moved to follow him but paused at Amara's side. "Be careful," she said softly. "That vault isn't just filled with answers. It's filled with judgment."